


Scars

by Tomigiru



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Abstract, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:46:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomigiru/pseuds/Tomigiru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stumbling around the new skin that scars forms on their bodies every day. There are some questions you don't ask, but the answers are still searched for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

Broken skin is their red thread white lines of knit together flesh tugging them together as if the stitches speared through each of them, a terrible mix of colors of hurts in different states of fading into old memory. And it doesn't hurt anymore but that maybe makes it hurt more.   
It's an agreement.

He steps through the door and he is bleeding, angry red that leaves in a few days. He does not let anyone see him shirtless for two weeks afterwards. She catches him one night moving his shoulder, stretching the skin, fighting the stiffness settled into every layer he has. He makes her swear not to tell, especially not to him. Swear. She does.

Words don't pass between them when they slink back into their places, chair, couch, windowsill, floor, like puzzle pieces. They forget sometimes, he forgets most, touching new maplines and oh god it hurts and his words punch new matching and quick fading lines on their hearts and he stamps out the fire eventually but the first spark still startles.

His name is rough on the lips of multiple people as he falls, and thinks about how amazing that is. All voices and his name in unison. The bones snap and skin tears and he is still dazed, amazing. Amazing. He looks at the jagged edges of new skin after and cannot help but think of what he’s done. How he’s doomed them all, how they’ve proved it, all by saying his name in hopes of protecting his expanse of body.

Some things are easy to sort out. Thin criss crosses mean something, so do nights spent locked in the bathroom, and so does every starburst of crumpled skin that lies on thigh and shoulder and torso.   
He walks in eyes shadowed and no one questions the changes in his maps and the roads that wind down his form. She wears high-necked dresses for two months.

There is something spectacular in stories that cannot be hidden. Something like pain that buzzes until it lifts the top of his skull and he feels full of helium, ready to float away. He keeps his head up, neck long, and they think for the world he is grounded. Their eyes trade with him, taking in and giving back. One look and they know. He can’t help but keep everything else a secret.

Everything fades, sped on by smoke filling every crevice between bodies like holy healing water. They are baptized every day. Sweat, smoke, blood, drink. He breaks the agreement when he is drunk everytime, feet stumbling in a kind of dance. He does not cry. His voice breaks just as much as tears would against hardwood, though.   
He insists. He insists again.   
Eyes hide when he demands to know how they will recognize each other if all of their skin becomes new.

She is gorgeous. She is spotted and colored and men cannot hold her down without noticing the way she bruises. Nothing lasts, and she laughs, revels in the thought of something that will cling to her body in the way so many want to. Impermanence is no blessing. She swallows it whole regardless. Aware of the jaded edges the other side of the coin grants.

They steal from each other in ways that can’t be held. Their eyes track down time and place and cause by sweeping expanses and guesswork. Their minds track down time/place/cause by their own maps—a key to others, a doorway that is left cracked just enough for light to seep through.   
They put each other together by dissecting themselves.   
Some they know already—there’s nothing to investigate when the sight draws a line right back to bright lights and the sound of air split by metal. Hurt that is shared is somehow warm despite sickness settling in their gut. Hurt that is shared means his hands holding cloth steady or his teeth clenching together as a needle (his hands steady with love and lies and promises) pushed through skin, untrained but appreciated. The past was not there to be patched. It sits split open, hidden under its guise of healing, it’s guise of old, pliant, thin white put up against fresh, solid, ground-hard pink. They form legions until it really is a worry that their shells are new, casted differently, colored wrongly.   
Words don’t pass between them but whispers still find their way against flesh. Lips and heavy breath and the touch of eyelashes and the soft shiver of tears say enough against changed skin. Hot breath against stolen lives and stolen moments. An eternity unsaid in the soft press against brokenness.   
Stories are made but never told. They are forced from eyes and skin and the way he kisses and the way she crosses her legs but they are never given, and they are never from lips. They all know they have worked themselves together, a different mosaic in each mind.


End file.
